


Sinking

by coveryourheads



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, BDSM, Demisexuality, Drowning, M/M, Masturbating to inanimate objects, Not in a sexy way, One-sided Peter/Flash, PWP, or so he thinks, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 22:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17927561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveryourheads/pseuds/coveryourheads
Summary: Deadpool saves Spiderman from drowning.(and then it becomes sexy.)





	Sinking

**Author's Note:**

> Loki bless you for clicking on this fic after reading that godawful summary.
> 
> Okay here we go. Ruin the fic experience for you by explaining the tags.
> 
> BDSM: there are some ropes and binding but done carefully. some spanking. domination. humiliation - slightly? i think i should put that in the tag. there's some threat with a knife but no knifeplay in this.  
> PWP: really. I lost the plot half-way through.  
> One-sided Peter/Flash: I really thought very hard about the non-con tag. so to ruin it for you, flash gropes peter's butt. and in another scene, kisses him.  
> Drowning: peter panics under water. it's a thing? even if they're good swimmers  
> Masturbating to inanimate objects: that are gifts(?) from wade  
> Asexual or Demisexual: peter is confused. as am i.
> 
> non-linear. I've gone through some editing. Remaining mistakes are all on me.
> 
> I almost posted without adding one thing. This fic, I started to be a part of the latest spideypool bigbang, but unfortunately had to drop out because I couldn't possibly make any of the check-in dates. Also I felt a bit, eh, about writing something so explicit for a bb. Anyways, I didn't have any other ideas and I'd written a lot and didn't want to discard this. So, here we are. I basically... Did a word generator for 20 random words and wrote a fic around that, although I stopped at 14 or something. That's what they are, when you come across them, as you read.
> 
> I wanted their safe word to be "Firefist" but that never happened. You can use that.

  

Sinking

  

  

  

[You say that I can play a pretty convincing role, so I don’t need you, I don’t think I need you… -Jars of Clay, “Sinking”]

 

\--- 

 

No one ever asks Spiderman if there is anything he’s afraid of. Genuinely scared of.  There’s losing people, but he can’t say that it is a thing he can list as a wholesome fear, because one, everyone loses people, and two, he doesn’t have any more people to lose. So, that’s that and it’s all done, and he’s grieved and even though he’s not totally over it, he has _accepted_ it and he has had to prioritize.

No one asks Spiderman, but Peter Parker gets asked.  He would pretend to think about it for a minute or two.  The conversation starts with a kid in his freshmen chemistry and his smartass comment that he has ‘chemophobia’.  He wants to be excused from lab.  It takes everything and a little of super-spider-power for Peter to not roll his eyes.  Shakes himself back to being Mr. Parker and asks for a psychologist’s letter.  A student in the front row asks if he has any phobias with a giggle.  He answers that no, he doesn’t, because he’s superman, which gets the class laughing.  He starts the lesson, turning to face the board.  He shivers the thought from his mind.  Whooshing waters.  Faint taste of chlorine filling up his mouth.  The pressure.  The lack of air.  The muffled voices.

Like a lot of things in his life, it’s because of a bully, the start of his hydrophobia.  Specifically, Flash Thompson or he had often murmured instead, Eugene, only out of earshot.

They had been friends, Eugene and little Peter, during elementary school.  They lived on the same street, knew the same neighbors, used the same playground.  Eugene liked baseball and had a goldfish named Mutton, while little Peter liked dinosaurs and had a shoebox of his parents’ things as keepsakes under his bed.  Eugene was called Eugene while he was called Bambi, because of his eyes that were too big for his face and maybe because he, too, had lost his mom and dad.  Eugene and Bambi grew up to become Flash and Peter, the latter more commonly known as Loser.  They no longer played in the same playground, scheduled into different classes, and only spoke hostile words towards one another when acknowledging each other’s existence.

Peter knew how to swim.  He wasn’t fast or anything.  He didn’t enjoy the pool; he liked the water part of it.  It was the snickering and his own insecurities about his too thin frame in a pair of trunks.  Flash, of course, was a great swimmer.  Constantly dunking him and shoving him into the deep end.  And just one time, he had swallowed too much water and just couldn’t.  His body wouldn’t float to the surface.  Peter closed his eyes.  Coincidentally, it was Flash who fished him out.  He’d been too heady, coughing up pool water and shivering to feel him slapping his back.  He hates the pool.  Mostly because of that.  Also, because Flash never stopped.  Shoving.  Dunking.  Pulling him out.  The same the next day.  (Peter never told Uncle Ben or Aunt May and the teacher thought they were just fooling around while Peter drowned a little each time.)

But no one ever asks Spiderman if he’s afraid of water.

No one is around to help him when he lands in the murky Hudson because he miscalculates the webbing distance.  Water punches him.  It’s so cold.  And sucks him into its depth.  Currents rolling his body down, deeper.  The last air bubble escapes out his mouth.  Peter’s body loosens.  Stupidly, waits for Flash to reach in, grab him by the hand and pull.  He blacks out.

Then he’s lying on his stomach in dirt.  He reaches up to rip the mask off his head so he can breathe properly.  Air is too sweet.  His body knows how to do it so well; throw up water, cough it out of his stomach and lungs, suck in air, repeat.  He heaves emptily, panting; exhausted.  It registers too late that he’s not at the school.  He’s been fighting some bad guys on the bridge and he fell and…  He turns his head to his left.

Deadpool waves his gloved fingers at him.

He scrambles with the wet mask.

“Stop.  Spiderman.  Stop.  You’re still in shock.  You’re okay…”

“Don’t look at me.”  Peter buries his face into his arm.

“Kind of too late?  Eh-heh?”

“Fuck,” Peter groans.

“We all have a kryptonite.  I don’t.  But I’m no hero,” Deadpool drums his fingers over his thigh.

“Fuck,” Peter repeats.

“I won’t…” Deadpool pauses. “You know I’m good for it, right?  You’re just… A normal guy.”

“And you’re not?”

“You wear a mask to protect your identity.  My mask is to protect your eyes.”  Deadpool smirks through his mask.

“What does that mean?”

“What’s your name?”

Peter shakes his head.  “What were you doing out here?”

“Oh? Two can play this game, honey. How old are you?”

Peter grimaces. “Were you following me?”

When Peter looks up, Deadpool almost looks fond.  Almost, as much as he can, under that thick mask.  Peter, after a second of scrutinizing stare, sits up, pulls the wet mask back over his head.  He needs to get back on that bridge.

“Why didn’t you swim?”

And is stopped mid-poise to shoot a web to get the fuck out of there.  Deadpool wins the round.

 

 

 

Homogenize

 

Peter receives a letter in the mail.  At first, he thinks it is garbage, along with all the other pile promising zero percent interest rate for the first six months and coupon savings for stuff he has no need for.  But it’s addressed to _Mr. P. B. Parker_ , written in neat, all capital block letters.  The one sheet of paper inside has been folded neatly, into thirds and thirds again.  There’s a word on there.  A random word.  Doesn’t make sense at all.  The tiny word has been cut out neatly with an X-acto blade, painted down with a thin layer of rubber cement.  It’s smooth on the plain white paper.  And there’s nothing else.

Peter flattens the folds out as much as he can.  Pins it on the empty wall of his bedroom with a yellow pushpin.

He stares at it, sitting with his back against the headboard of his bed.  It stares back at him when he decides to stop and do some reading instead.  He can’t concentrate.  In the end, he turns the lights off and shimmies under the sheets.  He can’t sleep for a few hours.  The word looks down at him.  Judges him.

He gets up, stomping over, two hands slapping the wall on either side of the paper.  He can see the word in the dark.  His eyes narrow, willing it to disappear.  It doesn’t.  A hand slips into his sleep pants, under his boxers.  Tightens his fingers around his cock and gets himself hard.  Pulls the bunched fabrics down to his thighs to get them out of the way.  Licks his palm and goes at it.  Fast and hard.  A bit dry but good.  Peter’s eyes never leave the paper.  The hand against the wall balls into a fist, all his weight leaning into it.  The scrutinizing word on a piece of paper, shit.  The letters blur together.  It’s a word.  It isn’t supposed to make sense.  No context.  Something to focus on.  Peter curses silently and comes.  Most of it covers his fingers but some splatters on the wall.

He groans from his throat.  Legs fail him.  He kneels on the floor.  Forehead against the wall.  The scent of his spunk hits him, and he realizes the drops of come are right there.  He looks up at the piece of paper, willing it to speak, do anything, to command.  But he knows what to do.  The rebellious part in him reaches up to wipe away the come with his fingers.  But he’s been satiated, and he’s been doing good.  He leans in farther, licking up the cooling come off the wall.  Then his fingers, one digit by digit, licking, not sucking, he knows and remembers.  Dabs his tongue between them, cleaning up after his mess.  Squeezes his dick slit for the last few drops and brings them up to his mouth on his fingertip to swallow them down, too.  Stays leaning against the wall for a few more minutes, one hand reaching up, fingers splayed out just beside the piece of paper.

Pulls his clothes back on.  Crawls back to the bed.  Wraps his body with the sheets, trapping in his own warmth, like a cocoon; like a hug.

“Good boy,” he whispers.  “I’m a good boy.  Your good boy.”

 

 

 

Deadpool gets up, stretching out his arms over his head.  Pats away the dirt from his uniform.  He lends him a hand.  Peter refuses it.  Deadpool insists.  Peter stands on shaky legs.

“Ugh.  Wet spandex is the worst,” Peter grumbles to himself.

He looks up, finds Deadpool’s head tilted to the side.  Studying his stomach area.  Peter hopes, his stomach area.  Or his legs.  Legs he can work with.

“Hey, eyes up here.” Peter snaps his fingers and points to his face.

“I wasn’t checking out your wet package,” Deadpool says, not so innocently.

Peter grimaces under the mask.  Deadpool straightens up.  Surprises Peter by unzipping the top part of his uniform a little, pulling his mask up.

“You show me yours and I show you mine.”

Peter finds Deadpool’s skin fascinating.  His jaw drops.

“Wade Wilson,” Deadpool offers, mouth curling up to a smile before pulling it down again.  Zips up and fixes the straps for his swords.  Jesus.  Swords.  Fair is fair.

“Peter.”  He steps backwards.  “Parker.”

He does not know why his mouth got away from him like that.  He checks the surrounding.  He will have to run a little before finding anything he can clamber up to find footing.  Basically, run away.  He starts.

“One day, Peter Parker, I am going to save your life.”

Wade Wilson shouts at his retreating back.

“Like fuck you will,” Peter responds.

  

  

  

Style

 

Another word arrives in the mail, pasted perfectly on plain printing paper.  Peter tapes it next to the first one, lining up the edges.  They don’t mean anything.  He doesn’t do anything.  Sleep doesn’t come easily.

 

Nibble

Circumstantial

Lapse

Stuffing

 

After the sixth letter, Peter gives up and fucks himself open on three of his shaking fingers.  Kneeling with his legs parted, face pushed into his arm against the wall, staring up at the letters.  He recites each word to himself like poetry.  Fucks himself, the lube drooling down his thighs.  Doesn’t come.  Can’t.  It’s not enough.  He weeps all the frustration out against his arm.

 

 

 

Flash corners him in the communal showers, trapping him between his extended arms.  Peter doesn’t look down.  All the other guys have left already.  Maybe Flash chased them out.  Peter winces at Flash’s raised hand.

“You think I’m going to hit you?” Flash whispers harshly.

“What do you want?”

Flash presses his thumb against his lip when he starts to talk.  Peter freezes.

“You’re going to blow me,” Flash says, leaning closer into his space.  Pries his mouth open with his fingers.  “You want that, don’t you?”

“No, Flash. I don’t.”

“Then what do you want?” Fingers slide down to his neck, his chest, curl around his waist to his ass.

“I want you to leave me alone.”  Peter pushes Flash away with all his strength.  “Leave me alone.”

He doesn’t.  Peter wants to disappear sometimes.  He doesn’t want to feel guilty for Flash’s rejected, hurt eyes, lingering on him for too long from down the hallway, approaching him predatorily.  Throwing him into the deep end.  Looking down at him, letting him drown.

 

 

 

Peter wakes up in the middle of the night, sweat covering his skin unpleasantly.  He turns the lamp on, shielding his eyes for a second to adjust.  At his foot, there’s a bouquet of red roses with a card.  A business card with nothing but a red and black bisected circle.  A hand-drawn heart.  Signed in square-ish block letters, _Wade Wilson_.

Peter doesn’t know if he should be creeped out or flattered.  Wade Wilson is not the first weird person in his life.  Probably.  He places the card in his shoebox of things with a sigh.  He pulls and crumples up all the petals, leaving the thorny stems in its pretty bouquet wrapping and ribbons, setting it on his windowsill.  He stares down at the tiny cuts on his palms and fingers.  The scent of blood and rose petals mix together in a nauseating manner.  He pushes his sleep pants lower, revealing himself.  Cups his hot testicles and jerks off as violently as he can.  Come mixes with blood and the scent of roses.  He’ll deny that he’s chanted Wade’s name as he ejaculated into his stinging palm.

In the morning, it’s gone, the bouquet.  Peter shrugs.  Maybe it had fallen down and out.  Probably not.  He can’t stop thinking about it.  His hands have all healed and makes him melancholy.

  

  

 

“Yes,” Peter answers.  “Yes, but not yet.”

Wade’s eyes are wide as he nods along with everything Peter says.

“I haven’t…”

Wade tilts his head.

“I’ve never had sex.”

“Shut up,” Wade grins. “You’re like, what, twenty-two?  That’s not so bad.”

“How old were you, when you…?” Peter doesn’t finish asking.  He doesn’t want to know.  Wade doesn’t look like he wants to tell that story.  “I’m twenty-eight.”

“Shut up!  Really?  Wow!” A thick scarf is wrapped around the lower half of his face, striped in black and red, obscuring that smirk he is most likely wearing.  “You could totally pass as jailbait.”

Peter scoffs, half-heartedly offended.

“Do you want to be my non-jailbait jailbait boyfriend?”

Peter shakes his head.

“Fuck friend?”

Peter smiles.  “Stop being so charming.”

“Okay.  My fuckhole?”

How about that.  Peter shudders.

“Yes.  Something like that.”

 

 

 

In the one class he has with Flash Thompson this semester, he gets paired with him on the assignment that takes an entire month.  Flash comes over after his basketball practice one evening just as Peter has finished the last of the dishes.  Flash is polite to Ben and May, and they ask him how he’s been.  Flash follows Peter to his room, sprawling on his bed, not even bothering to get his books out.  Flash doesn’t comment on his room.  Doesn’t comment on the little gadgets he has around his desk.  Peter stammers out something about making outlines to plan out the project on a weekly basis.  Flash studies his fingernails or whatever, grunting whenever Peter asks for his opinion.

“Can’t you even be mildly interested in this?  Take notes?”

“Come here.  I don’t have my book.”

Peter rolls his eyes and crosses the small space to sit on the edge of his bed.  And somehow ends up pressed into the pillow and half against the wall, Flash’s hands and arms crowding him, a knee wedged in between his legs.  Flash is studying his face with the same amount of interest as his fingers.  Or that is what Peter wants of Flash.  Not the intensity in his eyes or the parted lips, tongue wetting them.

“Let me up.”  Peter says.

“Hold on.”

“What do you want?”

Flash scoffs.

“I could have anyone, you know that, Parker?  Any one.”

“Then why are you—” Flash digs his thigh against his dick.  Peter suppresses the surprised moan.

“Yeah, you like that?”

“No, Flash.”

“I think you do.”

Flash’s face is too close.  Peter can feel all of his warmth.  The scent of his shampoo and deodorant.

“I don’t.  I’m not…” Peter starts.  Can’t finish.

“I know you.  I’ve known you since we were little kids.  I know the way you look at me like—Like…”

“No.  You don’t.”  Peter says with finality.  Pushes Flash away.  “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re attracted to me.  And I’m…  I want…”

“I’m not.  Trust me.  I’m really not.”

The hurt look is back on Flash’s face.  Shit.  Not what he was aiming for.

“It’s not you.  It’s me.” Peter says, standing from the bed.

“Fuck you.”

“Seriously.  I know how that sounds but…  I think I’m…  Asexual?  I don’t know.  I think you’re good looking and all but… I’m not interested in you like that.”  Then he adds.  “Any one.”

Flash looks at him, searching for sincerity.

“Oh.  I didn’t know… That was really a thing.”

Flash keeps his face lowered.  Fidgets.  Toes his backpack.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Peter offers.  He grabs his fallen book, flipping the pages.

“Thanks. I’m not… I like girls,” Flash says.

“Okay.  Can we get back to the project?”

“Yeah.  Okay.”

They work on half a chapter.  It’s more progress than Peter predicted they’d get done.

“Do you really not know how to swim?”

“I can swim.”

“Are you afraid of the pool?”

Peter startles.

“Maybe.”

“Sorry about that.  You know.  I won’t…”

“Don’t stop being you on my account, Eugene.”

Flash punches him lightly on his shoulder.  Peter smiles.  May knocks on his door at that moment to hand over snacks.

  

  

  

Impulse

 

Peter jerks off, face pressed into the paper.  It’s pale yellow, the paper.  Folded into perfect ninths and smells like cheap car freshener and gunpowder.  Pristine.  Peter impales himself with his other hand, two lubed up fingers in his hole.  It’s hard to reach his prostate, but he tries.  He cries against the paper, spit drooling down, staining it.  And comes.  Wipes his fingers on the paper.  Pins it up with the others.  Skewed.  By eighth of an inch to the left.  Peter smiles contentedly.

When he can walk again, he opens the other mails piled up.  There is an invitation to the ten-year reunion for Midtown Science’s class of 2008.  Peter throws it to the floor.  Maybe.  Probably not.

 

  

  

Wade obsesses over the death of a republican senator.  He gives Peter facts about him.  Then ends each rant with, “I’m so glad I’m Canadian.”

Wade cuts out pictures of the dead senator and pastes it into the pages of a pink scrapbook.  He uses an X-acto blade to cut out words in the headlines with straight lined precision, pasting them down with just the right amount of rubber cement.  Wade makes him put red lipstick on, kissing the pages, leaving permanent Peter kisses over the senator’s face.  Every time Wade cuts out a word, Peter exhales.  Inhales when the pointy blade impales the glossy magazine paper.  Exhales when the cut is made.  Repeats.

Wade mumbles out detailed facts about the senator.  Peter pretends to give a shit.  Kisses red marks on his face.

“Would you be more interested in this if you were kneeling on the floor?” Wade questions him breathlessly.

Peter holds his breath.

“Possibly.”  He replies after a moment to think about it.

Wade makes him kneel on the floor.  Holds his face with one hand, squishing his cheeks together so he puckers his mouth.  Smears red lipstick on his mouth.  Kisses the dead senator.

“Thank you,” Peter says.

Wade doesn’t acknowledge him.  Cuts out and pastes the picture on a new page.  Puts a new layer of red lipstick on his mouth.  New kiss.  New word.  Repeat.

“Tell me when you want to put that mouth to better use than kissing a dead senator,” Wade says.

Peter shivers and contemplates.

Then Wade adds, “Fuckhole.”

Peter’s dick shoots up, tenting his pants.  He wears pants, khakis, to look respectable and nice for work.  A checkered shirt that isn’t too nice.

Wade adds lipstick to his mouth.  His fingers squeeze his cheeks.  Hurts.  Peter moans.

“Kiss the nice senator, Fuckhole.”

Peter does.  The thin tabloid-quality paper sticks to his lips for a second.  His knees hurt.  Wade lives in a cement block.  It’s cold and his legs ache.  His dick hurts, stressing against the fabric of his pants.  He groans from the pain.  Wade squeezes his face in his hand.  Smears the remaining lipstick with his thumb.  Peter’s eyes tear up.  Wade lightly slaps him.  Peter moans.

“I wish you came with a manual, Peter.”  Wade whispers almost sweetly.

Peter agrees.  It would be easier if he came with a manual.  He would like to know how he works, too.  In more ways than one.

“But then again, Fuckholes don’t need a manual, right?  Just good for one thing, right?”

Peter agrees, nodding his head.  It doesn’t quite work in Wade’s grip, but he manages.

“Fuck.  You’re beautiful,” Wade says.

Peter whines.

“Sometimes.” Wade says. “Rarely.”

Peter agrees.

Wade abandons the piles of the pages about the dead senator, hauls Peter up over his shoulder to carry him to his bedroom.  Which is just a mattress on the corner of the cement block.  The middle sags something miserable.  Wade rips his ugly work khakis off to grab his at junk.  Pumps his fingers around and jerks him until he orgasms.  Almost.  Peter screams his frustration and claws Wade’s arm.  Begs him to continue.  Please.  Please.  Don’t stop.  Wade murmurs sweetly to him he’ll carve up his skin with the pointy blade.  To behave.  His fingertip traces over his hot skin the precision cuts.  Cut out the irrelative, random words.  “No words on my skin, Wade.”  Wade tells him that is an easy fix.  Presses him down into the mattress with all his weight.

“I don’t remember asking,” Wade says.  Smirks.   _That_ smirk.  The fondness in his eyes.

“Then what do you want?” Peter growls out.

Wade smiles at him.

“I want you to come for me.”  He does.  Shoots his load into the circle that Wade’s fingers have made.

It’s almost perfect.

  

  

  

Peter stares down at the water, the rolling waves, the reflected speckles of light.  The boat off in the distance.  The human activity.

The bridge he’s sitting on top of.  The squeal of hydraulics and brakes.  The elongated honks and shouted obscenities.

Peter smiles.

Keeps staring at the water below.  The dark, deep, cold flowing water.

  

 

History

 

She kisses him.  Peter feels nothing.  She flusters, stepping back and away.  On the way back home, riding in the bus, not slinging webs, another body plops down beside him.  This…  This ridiculous thing with the spider or some kind of strange second puberty has given him an ability to smell Flash before his brains recognize him.  Flash does this thing with his fingers over Peter’s knee, then his fingertip grazes the skin under the unfortunate tear in his jeans.  The bus halts and Flash has him by his hand, running out the back door just as the driver is about to take his foot off the brakes.  Peter can hear the string of cusses as the bus rolls away and their feet carry them down the street in the opposite direction.

“Flash—”

“Thirty minutes, Bambi.”

Peter keeps up with Flash’s fast paced jog.  Flash turns to glance at him, smiling.

And they stop.  Peter skids to a halt before he slams into Flash’s back.

“Look.”  Flash points out.

It’s the abandoned lot that’s been converted by the local kids where they hang out, play some ball, skate, but mostly, it’s a nice space where they can feel as safe as they can out on the streets, and the cops leave them alone as long as none of them are caught smoking.  Some kids spray paint graffiti and the particularly high wall has been serving the dozens of artists as a canvas over the years.  The designs remain for a few months until someone else decides to paint over it.  Flash points to that wall.

Spiderman.

“Yeah…  I—I saw it the other day.  I was hanging out and skating…”

Flash grins too widely.

“You?”  Peter is appalled and sort of proud at the same time.

“Pretty sick, right?”

“Right.  It’s—It’s… all right, man.”

Flash kisses him.  Peter feels…  It’s not nothing.  It isn’t something or anything.  It doesn’t feel good or bad.  Peter pulls back, stepping away.  Flash has this smile on his face.

“Flash—” Peter starts.

“I know.  Don’t.  It just…  I had this thought that…  What would it be like to kiss _him_ , right?”  Flash indicates the wall.  “And I felt really stupid.  I mean…  I’m kissing you, and I’ve wanted to for like…  Ever.  And it just…  Isn’t.”

“Yeah.”

“I get it, Pete.”  Flash puts both hands up, palms out.  “I hope you find someone out there, you know, when we leave here and all.”

“Thanks.”

  

  

Peter concentrates, kneeling with his ass in the air, forehead pressed firmly on the sheets.  His thighs quiver at the wide stance.  His hands are tied behind his back, like he has wanted.  He should’ve dropped his shoulders when he started, like Wade suggested, but he’d relied on his super strength too much.  Wade knows exactly how to make him lose himself.  Presses his finger in deeper, no more than a knuckle.  When his muscles clench around the delicious intrusion, Wade tsks, pulling his finger out to just the tip.  Peter’s breathing quickens. 

“Talk to me.”

Peter moans.  Wade parts his butt cheeks wider with both hands.  A thumb caresses his lubed up, greedy hole.

“Tell me something.”

“Hands…  My shoulders…”  Peter’s voice is scratchy.

Wade frees his binding easily, even going as far as messaging circulation back into each wrist, arm and shoulder.  Peter grimaces.  He doesn’t want kindness right now.  He thrusts his hips back.

“Keep going.”

Wade smacks his ass and his hole.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do.  You’ll take what I give you and like it.”

Peter barely manages to keep the whimper in his throat.  Wade rubs his skin and muscles until _he_ deems it satisfying.  Wade takes the rope that had been around his wrists, slithering it over Peter’s trembling skin.  His head.  His neck.  He does whimper.  Pathetically.

“Say it.”

“Thank you.”  It isn’t loud enough, just above a whisper, but Wade seems satisfied.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.”

The rope travels down his curved back, lingering over his tailbone.  The bended round end slides down his ass, tickling each side, the sensitive hole and the soft skin around it.  Wade takes his time, letting him know exactly where the rope is, his hands, moving slowly, pinching just when his mind drifts.

“I find you—” Peter starts.  “Most attractive.”

Wade doesn’t pause.  He doesn’t acknowledge Peter’s words.  He takes hold of Peter’s cock and balls, swollen and red with need, wet with sweat and weeping out his slit.  Peter moans at being touched.  He drops his shoulders down farther, chest touching the sheets.  His legs fall wider.  Peter accuses his body of being traitorous.  He wants to remain in that perfect stance, submissively presenting his want.  But everything is a bit sore.  It’s good.  So good.

“Wade—”

“You don’t have to try to flatter me like that.  I’ll let you come soon.”

The tone of Wade’s voice…

“Stop.  Stop!”  Peter shouts.  He sits up, facing Wade.  He palms Wade’s face with both hands.  Wills him to meet his eyes.  “Stop.”

There’s that sinking feeling in him reflected in Wade’s eyes.  Like that moment, when Wade finally completely peeled the mask off of his face, turning towards the shadows.  Peter had to make him turn to him then, too.  He’ll keep doing it.

“Listen, Wade Wilson.  I’ve _never_ felt this way about another person.  And I mean _never_.  I thought…  I was sure I was asexual.  Then I met you and my body just…  My head…  I find you so attractive.  I chose you.”

Peter climbs onto Wade’s lap, holding him close, wrapping one long leg around him.  He leans in to kiss Wade’s ear, the skin under it, the sharp cut of his jawbone, and licks up the length of his neck.  Wade whines, gripping his hips tightly.

“I want to be everything you want me to be,” Peter whispers.

A hand palms his ass.

“What do you want me to be?”

“Just Peter.”

  

  

“I need to go away for work.”  Wade tells him, running his fingers over Peter’s naked back, cool to the touch.  Calm.  Peter blinks, too tired to answer, to think.  “It might be a while.”

Peter answers with a flick of his finger that’s been laying on top of Wade’s stomach.

“While I’m gone, I need you to be a good boy for me.  Can you do that?”

Another flick.  A scrape of his nail over rough skin.

 

 

 

Advantage

  

There’s a yellow post-it stuck to the piece of paper.  A list of numbers.  Peter uses his burner, dialing it.  Wade answers after the third ring.

“Have you been a good boy?”

Peter swallows.  Hasn’t been expecting anything less or subtle.

“Yes.”

“Let me hear you.”

Peter smooths the latest mail, resting it on the middle of his bed.

“I have to put you on speaker.”

“Go ahead.”

Peter closes his bedroom door.  He throws his clothes off as fast as he can.  He grabs the bottle of lube and kneels over the paper, phone near his face.

“Tell me.”  Wade demands.

“I’m naked.”  Peter starts.  His fingers tremble.  “I’m kneeling on my bed.  Your word is… under me.”

“Is your cock hard?”

“Getting there.”

“Get it hard.”

Wade makes Peter describe verbally how he touches himself.  He groans out, rolling his testicles, telling Wade that he imagines it’s his mouth.

“I’m dripping…”  Peter says, thumbing his cockhead, spreading the pre-come around.  “I’m fucking my fist now.  I’m so hard…”

“Stop.”

Peter almost doesn’t, unsure if he’s heard correctly.  But he does.

“Get your hand off of your cock.”  Wade tells him.  Peter breathes hard, laying his hand flat on top of his duvet.  “Have you been fingering yourself, Peter?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been using that fuckhole like I said?”

“Yes,” Peter whispers, pressing his face down next to Wade’s voice.

“Lube up your fingers.  Put two into that fuckhole of yours.  I want to hear you.”

Peter does.  Even if he can’t come from it the way he wants, he’s been fingering his asshole like Wade’s told him to.  But it still hurts to press two fingers in abruptly.  He voices it.

“Aww, baby, I wish I were there, watching you fuck your hole, too much, too fast.  You’re so hungry for it.  To have that greedy hole filled, aren’t you?  I would lick up the tears from your face.  Can you add another?  That’s it, Peter.  Oh, Peter, if only you could hear yourself.  Squeeze your asshole.  Oh, that’s it.  Move your hips.  Keep your arm steady, move your hips and fuck yourself.  Go slow.  Mmm.”

“Wade—!”

“Yes.  Like how you’d ride a cock.”

“I’ve never—” Peter starts.  His hips change angles and the tips of his fingers brush against his prostate glands.  His throat releases a delighted moan.  It feels so shocking to his system, he doesn’t even register the embarrassment about the sounds he makes for Wade.  Wade is encouraging him over the speaker.  Peter only hears every other word.  Somewhere in the barrage of dirty words, the compliments, the insults, Peter registers that Wade wants him to touch his cock.  To come for him.  He tries, pumping his hips back and forth into his fist, as he continues the assault on his glands.

“—Fill you up with my cock, that tight hot hole— Come all over your face—”

Peter shouts Wade’s name.  Shoots his load.  Peter hears Wade’s satiated groan.  He wonders what Wade’s come would taste like.  If it would be thick and hot, dripping slowly like warm icing down his face, into his mouth.  Peter comes again, a little, the pleasurable sparks of nerves inside him.  The last drops of his come are pushed and oozes out of his dick, landing heavily on the piece of paper under him.  On the yellow post-it.

“My fuckhole…  Mine…  Peter…”

Peter agrees with a hum, too tired to move.  Wade talks to him, his voice low and warm.  He’s sitting on an empty beach watching the waves crash into the rocks and cliffs…

  

  

Continuation

  

  

“Keep it slow, Peter.”

Wade grips him lightly by the wrists, hoisting him off of his lap.  Peter, happy and too hot, his dick still hanging out of his shorts after a fast hand job, lets it all go, body loosed and relaxed.  Wade curls up around him.  Peter wants to return the favor, but Wade says he doesn’t need it.  Peter frowns…

“No.  I do want you.  Eventually.  I want to take you apart, put you back together, and do it again.  And again.  Then maybe, you’ll get the privilege of sucking my cock.”

That makes Peter’s dick twitch, as if all the years of neglect is going to result him in multiple erections as a form of payback.  Peter presses his thigh against Wade’s center.  Wade is hard, heavy and thick.  Peter imagines going down on it, stretching his lips as much as he can, sheathing his mouth over the hot length.  He’d probably smell concentrated down there, that scent of him at his neck or his chest.  It invokes all kinds of desire within Peter.  His balls probably sit heavy and hang low.  Peter closes his eyes and groans, thinking about Wade’s cock fucking his mouth upside down, his balls smacking his eyes and nose as he does.  His hips thrust forward, cock rubbing against Wade.  Peter whines when Wade presses him away, his thigh no longer rubbing that delightful cock.

“Be careful, Peter, or you’ll get spanked.”

His cock is at full mast at the magic word.  Wade indulges him, warning him that it’ll be the first and last time, getting to come twice and Peter comes in record time, his hips violently gyrating against Wade’s fist.  Wade makes him lick each finger clean.  Makes sure he enjoys each drop as he swallows.  He can’t get enough.  Fellates Wade’s fingers, choking himself on them.

“Oh, baby boy…  You’ll break my heart one day.”

  

  

 

Charity

 

 

“Tell me something.”  Wade says.  Peter curls in tighter, pressing his face impossibly close to Wade’s skin.  “Tell me a story from before.”

“Nothing interesting,” Peter mumbles.

Wade pushes back the hair from his forehead.

“Tell me anyway.”

Peter tells him about the first week when he moved in with Uncle Ben and Aunt May.  The neighborhood, full of people, full of kids, and so much noise.  Ben and May knew everyone in their block.  Peter tells Wade about Eugene—Flash, he says—and the playground they used to race to after school, to grab the good swing, which they took turns on.  Peter tells Wade about the skinned knees, the scrapes and bruises.

“I’d never been allowed to just…  Be a kid like that.  Mom and Dad, they loved me, I’m sure of it, but I wasn’t allowed out to play like that.  Not that we knew many of our neighbors.”

Wade runs his fingers through Peter’s hair.  Peter leans into the touch.  Peter talks about things until he drifts to sleep.  The first baseball game he played, the accidental line drive that shot through between the second and third base and the boys all cheering him on, the first skateboard he received and how he fell off it, bashing his head, only to get back on to it the very next day.  Aunt May’s horrible meatloaf…  Worse lasagna…  Uncle Ben’s big bag of tools…  His full-bellied laughter that would travel up the halls in the evenings when Peter was trying to study, making him laugh, too…

  

  

Peter manages to stash the mask and gloves after fixing his shirt over the suit.  He’s going to be late.  The bad guys of New York don’t seem to understand what the morning rush time and traffic is about, and that some people have got jobs to get to.  Even the friendly neighborhood spider.

“Peter Parker?  Is that you?”

Peter turns at the voice.

“Flash?”

The familiar face walks up closer.  Instead of grasping the offered hand, Flash embraces him like an old friend.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Peter says, awkwardly patting his friend’s back.

“How have you been, Peter?”

Flash looks good in his business casual, polo shirt rather than a button down and a leather briefcase hanging off his shoulder by the strap.

“Can’t complain.  You?”

“Good.  I’m good.  I heard you’re teaching?  That’s great, man.  I’m at Oscorps now.”

“Oh, wow!  That’s…  Congratulations.”

“Thanks.  It’s really good to see you.  Hey, I’ve gotta run but, we should catch up.”  Flash fishes out a business card.  “My cell’s on there, too.  Really.  Dinner or something.”

“Oh, um… My…  I have a, um—”

“We can double.  Listen, I have to get to work but, seriously, call me.”

“Sure.”

 

 

Roar

 

Wade’s return is unremarkable.  They order take-out and lounge on Peter’s sofa with a gameshow playing on the television.  Wade doesn’t offer anything about the job, not that Peter has expected him to.  He does seem exhausted, so Peter leaves him mostly alone.  Wade doesn’t ask him to talk, but he does anyway.  The stuff Spiderman has done, and then the things the jokesters of his classes pull.  Peter hopes he could make Wade smile just a little.  Wade indulges him, patting his head and shoulder, and finishes up the food.  Peter pushes Wade into his bathroom so he can shower.  After cleaning up, Peter goes into the bedroom, peeling his clothes off and sliding under the covers.  Wade comes in with a towel wrapped around his waist.  He frowns.  Then he notices Peter’s wall of words.

He stands there, studying each.  The stains on some of them.  The care Peter put into arranging each of them, neatly and lined up.  Except one.

Wade joins him in bed when Peter has been drifting off.  Pulls him close.  Wade doesn’t say anything, just reaching over Peter to turn the lamp off.  He sighs deeply against Peter’s hair, wrapping and arm and leg over him.

  

  

Wade introduces himself to Flash with a gentle smile and firm handshake.  Peter is more nervous than Wade.  The restaurant where they’ve decided on is casual and Wade keeps the hat and hoodie over his face.  The hostess seemed shocked as she showed them their table, but the waitress keeps a straight face, even smiling at them.  She shyly thanks Wade for his services, which confuses Peter at first, and she tells him how her brother was killed-in-action overseas.  She winks at Peter and tells him they’re cute together.  Peter just thanks her.

He’s never thought about that.  Together.  Were they a couple?

Flash and his boyfriend think so, too.  They ask questions like how they met and how long they’ve been together.

“I saved Peter from drowning,” Wade says with a smirk.

Flash startles a bit.  But he schools his features quickly.

Peter feels safe when Wade puts his arm over Peter’s side of the booth, touching his floppy hair every now and then.  He knows what sort of damage he can do.  Just as much as Wade can do.  It’s difficult to be Peter sometimes.  Sometimes, he doesn’t know how to reign in all the Spiderman parts, open his eyes and be Peter Parker, because he needs to go through dinner tonight with an old friend.  Peter squeezes his fingers into a tight ball.  Wade places his fingers at his nape.  He leans into his space, whispering into his ear, “Relax, be a good boy.” 

Instantaneously, Peter’s body loosens.  He leans into Wade’s space.  Wade keeps his fingers on Peter, thumb caressing the short hair.  Peter can hear the conversation again.  On a whim, he looks at Wade.  Wade meets his glance, smiling.  Wade makes this more bearable.  Wade makes him feel like he is allowed to have this. 

The food arrives.  Peter and Flash catch up on their lives.  They run out of things to talk about towards the end of their meal.  Even still, they order another round of drinks after the plates have been cleared away.

“So, Flash…  Do you still fancy Spiderman?” Peter means it as a joke. 

“No.”  Flash hand clenches into a fist next to his pint.  Even Flash’s overly chatty boyfriend – who’s been giving Wade run for his money – becomes quiet.  “With what happened with Gwen and her father…  He doesn’t deserve my respect.  None of them do.”

The ‘them’ Flash is referring to seems to be the general population of superpowered people in New York.  Peter’s fingers twitch.  The back of his neck tingles.

“Gwen?” Wade asks.

“Peter hasn’t told you?  They were pretty good friends.  I was, too.”  Flash tells Wade the short versions of each circumstances, to the best of his knowledge, which are closer to what the newspapers have written.  Half-truths.  Quarter-truths.  Peter has buried the real truths.  Deep under water.  Wade nods along.

“Do you _really_ think it was Spiderman’s fault?” Wade counters.

“No.  I don’t think he killed them or anything.”  Flash finishes his pint.  “But neither of them would have been in those situations if it weren’t for him.”

Wade opens his mouth to make another point, but Peter squeezes his leg, begging with his eyes to not make it worse.  They split the bill and get up.  Flash tells Peter outside the restaurant that they should do this again; and means it.  Wade shakes Flash’s hand less than amiably.

“It’s not enough to save him from drowning.”  Flash whispers to Wade, low enough to be unheard if it weren’t for his super-hearing.  Wade narrows his eyes.  Only wraps his arm around Peter’s shoulders with a short ‘see you around’ and leads them towards the bus stop.

  

  

Pray

 

Peter’s thighs tremble.  His muscles protest at the limits being pushed.  Peter sucks in a harsh breath, releasing, moaning.  He tries to flex his fingers.  Even his cock has softened, droopy and sad from the punishment.  Tears well up in his eyes and Peter concentrates on not crying, rather than his straining muscles.  He’s barred from moving but his limbs don’t listen to him.  His arms fight against the restraint.  The ropes are knotted expertly, carefully, and Peter can’t break out of them without doing some damage.  Not that he would.  On his knees, hands bound behind his back, legs spread and naked, everything is restricted.  His body isn’t his.  Neither are his actions.  He doesn’t have to do or think, other than what Wade wants of him.  He just wishes Wade didn’t live in a fucking cement box, that he hadn’t pushed pillows to the floor for Peter to kneel on, staring into the corner, and the damned frustration in him is growing and needy.  All he needs to do is speak up.  Call Wade.  His stubbornness is making him bite down his teeth. 

Wade is somewhere behind him.  There are some sounds.  The smell of burning candles make him feel fuzzy around the edges.  Wade could be standing just a foot away or he might be on the other side of the apartment, watching the television instead of Peter.  Peter hopes it’s the latter and his breath hitches.  Being unwatched, ignored, upspoken to.  Like a piece of furniture placed in the corner for lack of space.  Unwanted.  But just can’t throw away.  His cock has sprung up, hard and twitching for attention.  His hole clenches.  Just a fuckhole, to be used the way Wade wants.

Peter sobs.  He feels so lucky to be allowed this.

“Wade…  Please…  Please!”

“Please… What?”

Peter cries out.  Pleads.  Begs.  “Touch me.  Please!  Wade!”

Wade is suddenly there, touching his back.  There an unmistakable smell of sharpie pen.  The cool tip touches his lower back.  Peter has no idea what marks Wade is putting there.  When he’s done, Wade uncaps the lube he’s tossed near Peter.  For a minute, Peter waits, hoping for that sweet invasion inside him.  He doesn’t get it.  When he twists his head to see, it’s Wade.  His thick cock in his hand, pumping with just enough speed, squeezing and rotating his wrist at the head.  Peter licks his lips.

“Close your eyes,” Wade warns.  Peter keeps his eyes open, not being able to stare away from Wade’s cock, squirting jeez on his face.  Wade’s grip in his hair is harsh.  Peter finally shuts his eyes.  Wade’s come is hot and splashes all over his face.  He laps at the come that lands on his lips, sucking it in, savoring the taste on his tongue before swallowing.  He gets as much as he can, tongue darting out, to get more.  Peter whimpers, wanting so much more.  Wade pushes him, half of his face down on to the mattress, one barefoot pressed against his wet face.

“There.  I’m touching you.  Look at how dirty you are.”

Wade wipes the come off the bottom of his foot on Peter’s back.  Peter swallows the urge to thank him.  But maybe he does it.  Because Wade smiles and pats his face.  Drills his knuckles against his cheekbone.

“How do you feel?” Wade asks, tugging on the rope binding his arms.

Peter blinks.  He’s pretty sure he’s got come in his eye.  He feels slow.  Loose.  Peter smacks his lips, spit or residual come inside his mouth tacky.  Wade makes him suck water through a straw.  He makes a cut on the rope saying that he should be able to wiggle free from it if he wants.  It’s still tight enough, snug enough.  Feels like an embrace.  Wade smacks his bottom, just to hear him grunt.

“Christ, I can’t even bear to look at you sometimes.  You know how hard it was to come, looking at you?”

Peter moans, “Thank you.”

Wade smiles a bit.  He shakes his head.

“Peter Parker, you are just…”

Wade pulls the rope from him, freeing his arms, despite all of his weak protests.  Peter lays still as Wade pushes his knees apart.  Peter shivers, reaching out.  Wade goes down on him, swallowing all of him.  Peter arches his back then tentatively lays his hands around Wade’s head.  His thumb caresses the uneven, hot skin, just holding on as Wade’s lips pull and push, tongue and roof of his mouth sucking.  Wade thrusts his fingers inside Peter’s mouth.  Three long fingers over his tongue, fucking his mouth and throat.  His thighs shiver.  He shouts and announces around Wade’s fingers, “I’m coming.”  Wade doesn’t even stop.  His eyes bear into Peter’s.  And Peter comes, his fingers and thighs tightening around Wade’s head, who is relentlessly still slurping on the head of his cock.

“Wade, please—” Peter begs when he’s softened and sore.

Wade collapses over him, his face planted against Peter’s stomach, arms hugging each leg.  Peter stays awake long enough to find Wade’s weight reassuring and his snoring too loud.  In the morning, Peter wakes up to a bundle of dead roses and a handheld mirror, but no Wade.  The bundle of dead roses, with its shriveled leaves and petals, the long stems dried.  Wade’s wrapped the rope from last night around the bundle, tying it into an elaborate bow.  Peter uses the small mirror to see what Wade’s written on his back.  The angle is awkward but he’s flexible enough.  Peter exhales.

Wade’s Fuckhole.

Peter uses the shower to scrub the dried come off his skin and hair, taking care to not rub away too much of what Wade’s written on his skin.

  

  

Spiderman dodges the punch too late and there are bells ringing inside his head.  His body contorts, shoots a web, swings, another web.  His head might not be in working order, but his body reacts.  Oh, that is a bullet.  It almost grazes his thigh when he twists away.  He notices the police cars, the saturated red and blue sirens, swirling the colors in maddening patterns.  Spiderman is dizzy from the lights, the punches to his head, the noise.  He thinks the police are shouting at him, one using a megaphone, to stand down, and both him and the Green Goblin, because it doesn’t make sense.  He’s the good guy here. 

Then he totally doesn’t hear one of the cronies sneaking up on him.  Very narrowly misses a spinning blade attached to a… Tentacle? And Spiderman tumbles down.  Shoots a series of webs just in time to snatch himself up and above.  Then somehow his body is soaring in the air.  And he’s falling.  Falling.  During all of that, Spiderman wonders why the hell they’re always fighting over one of the bridges.  When his body hits the surface, he vaguely thinks that maybe it’s good.  Water certainly hurts a lot less than becoming a giant splat of spidey on a sidewalk in Times Square.  And then…  And then…

A splash.  Then sinking.  Sinking.  Deeper and deeper.

Sorry.  So sorry.  Wade.  Maybe I’ll make it through this and…

Spiderman tries to kick his legs.

…I think I like you a lot and…

His arms flail.  One big uncoordinated stroke.  Another.  His chest hurts from the lack of oxygen.

…I want to try.  More.  I want more, Wade.

His body knows how to swim up.  His head breaches the surface.  He takes a big, deep breath.

“I’ll show you.”

He discharges a web and another, making a sling for himself.  He’s back on the bridge, sticking to the side of one of the towers.

“Ugh.  Do not go in there,” he points to the water.  “It’s disgusting.”

He pretends to gag.  He wants to throw up water he’s swallowed, but now is not the time.  Now is the time to put away the bad guys.

 

 

Leash

 

Peter scales the dilapidated building.  Wade always leaves the window open, so he shimmies through it.  Wade stops, staring at him.  Peter giggles.

“Nice dress,” Peter says.

Wade is wearing the gaudiest dress over his Deadpool suit.  It’s made of rayon or something cheaper, an orangish red color.  It’s an immodest length and cut deep and low.  Peter isn’t sure if it’s lingerie or a dress.  What Wade does is pose for him, accentuating his chest and thighs, in a skin magazine type of way.  Peter slips his mask over his head and walks over to Wade.  Wade straightens up to his full height, practically towering over him.  And Peter feels his face flush.  He unzips Wade’s suit down a few inches, pushing his mask up and off.  When that’s done, he touches the ugly dress, the shiny fabric and Wade’s muscles underneath the layers.

“You smell like the sewers.” Wade comments.  His mouth is smiling though.  Peter rolls his eyes.

“Not unusual in my line of work.  Not all of us get to work a fancy nine-to-five in nice suits,” Peter flicks his eyes up.  Wade looks down at him with warmth and all the courage he’s wishing for.

“With beautiful, sharp assistants like Bea and Arthur.  Maybe I can hire you.  You’d look edible in a pencil skirt and pumps.”

Peter files that away for later.  It’s too much information right now.  He’ll think about that later.

“Shut up, Wade.  I’m going to kiss you.”  Peter leans up, using Wade’s wide shoulders to pull himself up higher.  His mouth touches Wade’s and Peter closes his eyes.

Wade shuts up and kisses him back.

  

  

Wade whips him with the dried rose stems.  All over up and down his ass, his shoulders, his thighs and calves.  Peter shouts and screams through the fabric Wade’s stuffed into his mouth, which might be his dirty briefs.  He claws his nails into the sheets.  Wade doesn’t go easy on him.  Peter doesn’t want him to.

After Wade’s tires of that, he tosses the shredded and battered stems to the corner.  He takes the fabric out of Peter’s mouth, kissing him deeply.  Peter sucks on Wade’s tongue to get moisture back in his mouth.  Wade jerks him off.  Fast and hard.  Peter cries into Wade’s mouth, back arching as he comes.  When Wade tries to pull himself away, Peter doesn’t let him.  He reaches down, taking Wade’s pulsing cock in his hand.

“Please…  Let me…”

Wade nods, his eyes never leaving Peter’s.  Even as he comes, trembling through it all, his eyes are fixed on Peter’s.

 

  

“I don’t want anything more than this, Peter Parker.”

 

 

 

Neglect

 

 

“Hey, Wade?  If I’m your Fuckhole, then what are you?”

Peter wins this round.

**Author's Note:**

> stop growing up. never ever get older. if you do, get a job where you know you'll start out hating it, or you'll eventually hate the job you once loved and everything involved with it, thus heartbreak. also, even if you know how to... solder really well, if your job doesn't require the skill, don't volunteer that you are very good at it - or they'll make you solder and not pay for that skill. that made no sense. i work accounting, etc, paper pushing, but bosses found out i am really good at creative suite softwares and they ask for designs and stuff, like, uh, are you going to pay me to do that? No? Then, uh, nope. And then they go, ugh, millennials. Then later it was, teach this new person how to use photoshop/illustrator, they have some knowledge (who didn't, actually, have any idea how those programs were diff). Uh, no? Because I paid a lot of money at school to learn this stuff. almost all jobs are like this though, apparently, unless you work for... google or something. but middle management is still like this, from what i hear from friends. i'm fine with my job but omg the things they want from me sometimes requires magic, i swear. -rant over.-
> 
> *HEY!* I'm still alive! And still writing! Just busy with life.  
> Did this fic make sense to you? Please let me know if it did.  
> Or anything else.  
> I am! on discord spideypool group thing! as coveryourheads (not that i know how to use it properly)  
> *BYE* (these were yukio waves)


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